


Of Novels and Paintings

by HolmesianDeduction



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - All Media Types, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - John Le Carré
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Infidelity, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:29:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesianDeduction/pseuds/HolmesianDeduction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Smileys have never been congruous in their perceptions of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Novels and Paintings

              _I love you.  I don’t understand you._

             The night is unseasonably warm, and to save money they don’t need, the bedroom window of the house at Bywater Street has been left open.  The sun hasn’t quite finished going down, but the stars are already out and barely visible through the dark clouds over London, casting the entire sky a hazy mixture of greys and violets.  Sitting beside the window, in a silk dressing gown and smoking a long-stemmed cigarette, her hair tied back from her face in a fashion that most would call “striking,” but that her husband quietly deemed “very like you,” the still - by most standards - newly married Ann Smiley languishes in a way that she didn’t know she was capable of.

             She loves the man in her bed, even as he snores almost inaudibly, still sitting up against the headboard, a book of German poetry making a tent over his lap.  Everyone had been sceptical when the engagement had been quietly announced, and truthfully, even she has a hard time articulating what it was that made her pick George.  And now here they are.  She loves him - she doesn’t doubt that, and yet - 

              _He loves me.  He doesn’t understand me either._

             George is like text, like a dense novel packed with details and lovingly crafted metaphors that dazzle and make you feel like the cleverest person alive, but which also take time to draw out, and patience.  He lives in shades of drab and grey, and Ann can’t fathom why he shies away from the vivid colour and broad brush strokes of her own world, why he won’t venture to enjoy it with her.

             Down on the street below, she sees a familiar face turn upwards, then raise a hand in a small wave.  She waves back and the beginnings of an idea unfurl in the back of her mind.  Casting another glance at her sleeping husband,  Ann smiley pulls a pen and paper from the vanity near the window and begins to write a letter.  If George could not enjoy evenings like this with her, she would find people who  _could_ enjoy them with her.

            _And after all, there will always be you, my love._


End file.
